Agent 6

Washington DC FBI Headquarters J. Edgar Hoover Building 935 Pennsylvania Avenue

Next Day

Leo was due to stay in Washington DC for a few days, depending on how the work progressed. Resigned to the fact that his time in the United States had been suddenly and dramatically cut short, he was impatient to return to New York – there was now intense pressure on his investigation. In all likelihood he had weeks, not months, before the Soviet Union took further action against his daughters. If they went as far as to arrest Zoya and Elena then he would not be able to hold out – more likely, he would begin to make arrangements to return that same day. A once benign trip to the archive was now a costly distraction.

A friendly man called Simon Clarke had met him at the airport, introducing himself as the archivist, an owlish-looking individual in his fifties with round gold-framed glasses and a gently protruding stomach curving out from his body like a pleasant hillside. He spoke fluent Russian, grammatically perfect, but with an American accent and Leo guessed that he’d probably spoken to very few native Russians. Kind and mild-mannered, Clarke hoped that Leo could illuminate many of the discoveries that had been collecting dust, mysteries that they’d failed to unravel about Soviet espionage protocols launched against the main adversary. Clarke had used Soviet spy slang – the main adversary› – keen to show that he was acquainted with their secret code.

On a brief tour of the city, before heading to the archive they stopped outside the FBI headquarters. The building was modern, concrete, quite unlike the Russian secret police headquarters, the Lubyanka, with its grand historical facade in the centre of Moscow. The architectural principle of the Hoover Building seemed not that it should appear impressive but that it should appear unbreakable. There was nothing ornate or decorative about the design: it was a hybrid of a parking lot and a power station, as if the FBI were in the same utilitarian category. The archive, not marked on any map or listed in any official registry, was located three blocks back, on 8th Street. There was no sign, no reception, merely an unremarkable door that opened directly onto the street like a fire escape. The entrance was sandwiched between two large offices: a door without a number or mailbox, like a magical portal that everyone on the street walked past oblivious to the secrets it held.

Clarke took out his keys, opening the door, turning on the lights and revealing a narrow staircase. He ushered Leo inside, locking the door behind them before descending the stairs. The air was dry, machine-processed. At the bottom of the stairs was a small drab office where Clarke turned off an alarm system. To the side of the office was a steel door, sealed shut, like a bank vault. After entering a code, there was a faint hiss as the door opened. Lights automatically turned on, fluorescent bulbs slowly flickering one after another in quick succession, revealing the archive’s full dimensions.

Far larger than Leo had expected, the archive stretched for hundreds of metres with row upon row of steel shelves. Unlike a library there were no books. Everything was stored in uniform brown cardboard boxes, side by side – thousands of them, each with the same gap between them. Leo looked at Clarke:

– All this?

Clarke nodded:

– Seventy years’ worth of material, most of it understood, some of it not.

Leo moved forward. Clarke put a hand on his shoulder.

– Before we start, there are a couple of rules. I’ve been instructed to search you upon leaving. Please don’t be insulted: this is standard policy and applies to all visitors. You must wear these gloves when touching anything. Other than that, you’re free to look at whatever you like. Except no fountain pens, or ink of any kind. You don’t have any pens on you?

Leo shook his head, taking off his jacket, hanging it in the office. Clarke noted:

– You might want to keep that with you. The chamber is cold, air-conditioned for preservation purposes.

Seventy years’ worth of refrigerated spy secrets, thousands of attempts to betray, deceive and murder, preserved as though they were mankind’s finest achievements.

The ceiling was not particularly high, but the room was remarkably wide, giving it surreal proportions, the shape of squashed shoebox. The entire archive was concrete, resulting in two colours dominating, the grey concrete and the brown cardboard boxes. There was the hum of air and occasionally slight vibrations from a passing subway train. A passage ran through the middle of the archive from end to end. Each aisle was marked with a number. There were no signs, no written explanations. Clarke must have guessed his thoughts, remarkold/p›

– Don’t worry! We don’t want you to look through everything. I have put aside several boxes that I thought you might be able to shed some light upon. But you’re free to walk around and see if anything catches your eye. Why don’t you familiarize yourself with the archive before we sit down with the material I’ve selected?

Despite the suggestion that he was free to explore, Clarke had not left his side.

Feeling self-conscious, Leo stopped by one of the aisles, picking one at random. Each box had a sticker with a number written on it, a long code that meant nothing to a casual glance. Every box had a lid, making it impossible to browse. Clarke commented:

– There is a reference catalogue in the office that matches up the codes with a description of the contents. Not everything is stored in boxes, though: some odd-shaped objects, or oversize items, stand on their own. They’re located further down, near the back. Let me bring a copy of the catalogue: that might help.

Clarke turned around and hurried towards the office. Leo circled, restless – his thoughts dwelling upon the investigation. Idly he opened the nearest box. It was filled with money, wads of five-and ten-dollar bills, low denominations, but pristine, unused, a small fortune. Leo suspected the money was Soviet-produced forgeries. One wad of money was inside a plastic bag labelled CAUTION. The notes probably contained a chemical of some kind, perhaps even a toxin. Putting the lid back on, he moved down to the next aisle, selecting another box and lifting the lid. This box was filled with scientific equipment, a microscope and other apparatus that Leo didn’t recognize. The objects were dated, perhaps fifty or so years old. Once again there was no explanation: no written documents. After the third and fourth box it dawned on him that the bulk of this archive would prove to be banal. It appeared as if the Americans had collected everything even vaguely connected to Soviet spy protocols.

About to turn around and wait for Clarke to return, Leo spotted the oversize objects. He walked towards the back of the archive, finding a walking cane made out of gnarled wood. He toyed with it for a while, wondering if there was a secret compartment, some secondary function, a poison spear perhaps. Giving up, he returned it to the shelf. There was an old-fashioned transceiver, perhaps used to make secret communications, as large as a television. Next to that was a suitcase.

Leo crouched down, his hands shaking as he placed them on the case. Though his hands had changed markedly over the years, this case had not. It was old fashioned with a leather-clad handle and rusted steel locks. Despite the fact that he hadn’t seen it for sixteen years there was no doubt that it was the same case he’d bought when he was a young secret-police officer.

It was the suitcase Raisa had taken to New York.

Same Day

Leo stood up, peering through the boxes, checking to see if Clarke was close by. There was no sign of him. Returning to the case, his hands still shaking in nervous anticipation, he clicked the locks open and looked inside.

The disappointment was crushing. The case was empty. Recovering his composure, he breathed deeply. He ran his fingers along the lining, searching for a noe, a letter hidden in the fabric. There were no knife cuts, no stitched compartments. He examined the outside, turning it upside down, feeling the base and the corners. He could hear Clarke’s footsteps on the concrete floor.

– Mr Demidov?

The case offered no more clues. He checked the objects nearby: there were at least twenty other suitcases. He recognized none of them. Surely Zoya and Elena’s belongings were also here. They’d been confiscated: the girls had returned to Russia with only the clothes they were wearing, everything else had been taken. Leo memorized the item number of Raisa’s case. Clarke’s footsteps were getting closer: he was only metres away. As he came into view, Leo stood up, moving away from his wife’s case.

Clarke smiled at him.

– Find anything?

– No, not really.

It was a weak denial. Clarke didn’t pick up on it. He was carrying a large hardback book protected with plastic.

– Here’s the catalogue.

Leo took it from him, saying nothing about his discovery, trying to remain calm and unflustered, opening the book and flicking through. Clarke put a friendly hand on his shoulder.

– I’ve taken the liberty of putting together a few boxes of items I’d like your opinion on.

The reading area was near the office, situated inside the archive since no items could be removed. A table had been provided. There was a desk lamp, a chair and several boxes filled with items to look through. Clarke chatted to Leo for a while, explaining his interest in the contents. Leo barely listened to a word, tortured by the delay, desperate to look up the reference number of the suitcase in the catalogue. Finally, Clarke left him alone and he was able to study the entries. The numbering system was complex. From memory he scribbled down the code number of the suitcase. He found the entry log. The description read: INVESTIGATION RED VOICE 1965 NY

He checked the vocabulary in his dictionary. The use of the word RED was almost certainly a reference to Communism, a prominent Communist voice – surely it referred to Jesse Austin.

Leo stared at the codes trying to figure out how to trace the other documents connected to the same investigation. Unable to crack the system, and reluctant to ask for assistance, he had no choice but to work through every entry, running his finger down the descriptions. He was halfway through the catalogue, constantly checking to see if Clarke was approaching. His finger stopped, pressed against the words: INVESTIGATION RED VOICE

He wrote down the location for the box – code 35 / 9 / 3.3 – and shut the catalogue, slipping the paper into his pocket.

Standing up, he edged forward, seeing Clarke nearby in the office. He was occupied and Leo took his chance, moving quickly, hurrying towards aisle 35. Reaching the aisle he turned right, his hand moving across the numbers, finding the ninth unit. The box was on the top shelf, third along. He took hold of it, his arms trembling with emotion. The box was heavy and he struggled with it before managing to set it down. As if he was handling a box of precious treasure, he slowly removed the lid.

Inside was a mass of documents, details of the United Nations concert, a programme, official letters written from the Kremlin regarding the trip, discussing the Student Peace Tour, the proposals and protocol. As a former agent, Leo’s sense for what was important had been developed over many years of searching through papers and personal belongings. These were formal state documents. They revealed only the surface gloss of the tour. His hand touched the bottom of the box, feeling something hard, the spine of a book – it was a diary.

Leo read the first entry, remembering the words as surely as if he’d written them himself: For the first time in my life I feel the need to keep a record of my thoughts.